


This Wouldn’t Happen in NASCAR

by 77sparks



Category: Generation Kill, Hockey RPF
Genre: Abomination, Crack, Curses, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/77sparks/pseuds/77sparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You assumed,” Ray says, trying his best to stay calm, but not doing a good job. “You thought baby producing hate sex was a reasonable assumption.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Wouldn’t Happen in NASCAR

**Author's Note:**

> The existence of this story might actually be proof that we are living in the end of times. Also, for hockey people, this is definitely more of a GK story than a Hockey story.

i.

Ray doesn’t believe in fate. 

Or rather, if fate actually existed, Ray doesn’t believe that fate would waste its time on something this stupid. Or maybe, what this all actually means is that fate does exist, but it’s controlled by someone with a fucking awful sense of humor.

Wait a fucking second. 

Does this mean that Ray just proved God’s an asshole? 

Brad would be so proud.

Ray should text him right now because this is some PHD level shit. 

He just needs to find his phone first. The last time he remembered having it was right after he had declared that shot glasses were for pussies and he was just going to drink straight from the bottle.

It’s possible Ray is a little bit drunk.

This is all Patrick Kane’s fault. Ray is pretty sure he never hated anyone more in his life than he hates that fuckhead. 

They have this thing.

Not a “thing” thing. And Ray can’t believe his mind even went to that place because it’s a depraved, wrong, bad place. Ray has always been proud of the fact that there is no sex act too filthy or depraved or just plain wrong for him to at least give thoughtful consideration. He has fond memories of that time in the humvee when he successfully argued that having sex with the Hulk would be potentially enjoyable and possibly worthy of a medal. They had made Trombley cry that day. Good times. 

The point being that even the thought of sex with Patrick Kane is revolting and until this moment Ray had been pretty sure that with the right incentive he’d be willing to consider sex with anyone or anything. Patrick Kane is like a living, mouth breathing chastity belt. 

Anyway, they have this thing. They keep running into each other in random bars across the continent and also one really confusing time in Brazil. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Ray will be innocently walking into a bar and the fucker will just be there, smirking at him.

It’s freaky. 

He told Walt he was going to get a restraining order, but Walt had pointed out that since Ray was always the second one there, he was technically the stalker.

And that little twist is just further proof that God is a fucking dick. 

Also proof of God’s fundamental dickishness: the fact that it’s 2 am and Ray is sitting on a park bench with Patrick Kane and a bottle of Vodka he swears is actually Wal-mart brand. No one deserves this fate. 

“You,” Ray starts to say. Talking is kind of challenging because his whole face is numb.“You should be proud of yourself. Your face is actual proof of a cold and unfeeling god that has given up on us and has decided to let us all die abandoned and unloved.”

Patrick Kane (and Ray refuses to think of him by anything but his full name because if he starts thinking about him by just his first or last name, or even worse, a nickname, Ray would be forced to admit that they were actually acquainted which was very much not okay) carefully puts down the half empty bottle vodka he had just practically been chugging. “You’d be surprised how many people have said that me.” And then laughs.

Ray grabs the rest of the bottle away from him and chugs it down. 

ii.

It’s 4am and Ray is pounding on Walt’s door. He refuses to believe Walt isn’t home or, worse, is refusing to answer the door.

It’s a different night that the one with the vodka and the park bench and the realization that Patrick Kane is proof that God exists and hates Ray, but it had gone pretty much the same. There had been a bar, and then there had been Patrick Kane, and then nothing had made sense any more. 

“Walt! Open your fucking door!” Ray shouts. “I’m dying here.”

A light turns on two houses down. Ray begins the consider the possibility that he’s about to get arrested. 

“Damn it, Walt, I’m begging you!” Ray shouts and goes to pound on the door again. The door finally opens and a hand yanks Ray inside and another hand covers his mouth.

Walt is half asleep and glaring at him through barely opened eyes. “Are you actually in any physical danger right now?” Walt demands.

Ray points to the hand covering his mouth preventing him from speaking. 

“Just nod your head,” Walt orders. “Are you actually physically dying?”

Ray shakes his head no.

“Tomorrow,” Walt says, “when I’m actually awake, I’m going to kill you.”

Walt drops his hand from Ray’s mouth. Ray grabs his hand before Walt can leave the room. “We need to have life affirming sex right now. I think I just accidentally drunkenly made out with Patrick Kane.”

Walt stares at him. It’s an impressive stare. Ray thinks about taking a step back, but then decides he’s too drunk for such a challenging maneuver so stands his group. “Accidentally?”

Ray shudders. “It’s a long story.”

“If I have sex with you, do you promise **not** to tell me the story?” Walt asks.

Ray nods. 

“Fine,” Walt says.

“And this is why I love you most of all,” Ray declares. 

Walt just rolls his eyes and yanks him up the stairs. 

iii.

Ray is willing to take a ‘maybe if I ignore all of this it will go away’ approach until the threatening text messages start.

At first he thinks it just Walt getting revenge on him, but Walt is honestly not capable of injecting that much suppressed rage into a text message. 

He considers that it might be Brad, but he’s pretty sure he hasn’t pissed off Brad enough for this level of rage in at least six months. Besides, Ray’s brain reprogrammed itself long ago to longer be capable of being afraid of Brad’s particular type of insanity. Ray laughs in the face of Brad’s death stare and threats of bodily harm. These text messages, however, are some fucking scary ass psycho shit. 

Ray is a Recon Marine and therefore contractually obligated not to be afraid of anything, but he’s no idiot and knows when he’s gotten himself into situation he can’t handle. It’s time to call in the big guns. 

iv.

“So,just to be perfectly clear about what you’re trying to tell me,” Brad says. “You’re saying that you’ve been harassing and drunkenly groping an all-star hockey player in bars up and down the continent.”

“And once in South American,” Ray replied and then registers what Brad had actually said. “Wait! That’s not what I’m saying at all!”

Brad raises an eyebrow at him and looks intimidating. 

Ray glares back at him. It was maybe a mistake to show up on Brad’s doorstep at 1 am on a Tuesday night without calling first, but he brought beer with him. Beer and egg rolls, so fuck this shit. Also, Brad knows he can’t get away with the intimidating Iceman shit with Ray, so something else is going on here. Something about the tone of Brad’s voice and the set of his jaw that is setting off alarm bells in his head. Brad is trying to hide something from Ray. When it clicks, Ray’s jaw drops in horror. “You like him! Like you follow him or some shit. You’re a fan!”

Brad looks uncomfortable for a moment and then gets the determined look on his face that he always gets right before he starts a lecture. “He’s one of the best players...”

Ray bangs his head down on the table in defeat. There’s a puddle of beer right by his mouth. Maybe if he angles himself right, he can drown in it. “If you start quoting stats at me, I’m never speaking to you again.”

“I’m saying,” Brad says coldly, “that I admire anyone who demonstrates a warrior spirit. Just because he’s a little bit troubled, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t appreciate his genius on the ice.”

“A little bit troubled? I’ve seen him use a straw to blow bubbles in his beer! Ray asks. 

Brad is unmoved.

“You actually have his jersey or something don’t you?” Ray asks. 

Brad doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Ray feels betrayed and kind like vomitting. Preferably all over Brad’s stupid Patrick Kane jersey.

“It’s not signed, is it?” Ray demands.

Brad gives Ray is best angry glare. It’s a look that has brought lesser men to their knees. Ray glares back and takes back Brad’s egg roll. He doesn’t deserve it. “This is almost worse than you’re thing with Trombley!” 

“Shut up, Ray,” Brad orders and grabs the egg roll back. 

“Fine,” Ray says. “You write your love letters to Patrick Kane and I’ll just sit here and wait for his psycho friend to dismember me and this next part is a direct quote by the way:  
put all my essential organs into nearly labeled plastic bags.’”

“You do that,” Brad replies. “Wait, what? What did you do, Ray?”

v.

Walt suggests that Ray just not go into bars anymore.

That, however, is much trickier than you would think because what actually makes a bar a bar? Does a restaurant that has a bar count? What if its just a restaurant that serves drinks? Where is the line? It’s a philosophical question to which Ray doesn’t have the answer. He hates not having answers. 

Still, it’s not a bad idea, so Ray does his best to avoid anything too bar like. For a while it appears to be working. He has six weeks of Patrick Kane free bliss. And then he’s in a fucking Friday’s eating potato skins with Walt when he sees him.

“Fuck,” Ray says.

“What?” Walt is using the free crayons to draw what looks like some sort of zombie invasion on his placemat. 

“He’s here!” Ray says. “Patrick Kane.”

“Just ignore him,” Walt orders. His Zombie art starts growing much bloodier. 

“That’s impossible!” Ray complains, “I can already hear his braying laughter like a siren’s call.”

Walt looks at him with genuine concern. Ray knows its genuine because his eyes are a fraction wider than his usual look of mocking concern. Also, there are tiny frowns lines at the corner of his eyes.

“Look,” Walt says. “It’s okay if you want to fuck him. You don’t have to invent this stupid fate thing so I don’t get my feelings hurt.”

First Ray tries to figure out when Walt got a serious enough head injury to impair his higher brain function. Then he considers the possibility that he’s entered some sort of alternate reality where he’s the only sane person in the world. 

Ray tries to form words to respond, but he is actually speechless. He opens his mouth and shuts it a few times before storming off to confront Patrick Kane. This shit is getting ridiculous. Ray doesn’t mind being fucked with, but when it starts to affect Walt, that’s fucking it. 

Walt doesn’t look up. He’s too focused on drawing a knife sticking out of the eye of a zombie wearing what looks sort of like a hockey jersey. 

Patrick Kane is at the bar slurping from some sort of fruity drink with an umbrella stuck in it. Ray has never hated anyone more in his life.

“First off,” Ray demands to a startled looking Patrick Kane. “Tell your friend to back the fuck off.”

“What?” Patrick Kane asks. “Oh, it’s you.”

He then turns away from Ray and continues to slurp at his drink in an aggressive manner. 

Ray grabs the drink away from him.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Patrick Kane asks.

“You’re my fucking problem. Everywhere I go, there you are,” Ray complains.

“You’re the one who’s stalking me!” Patrick Kane shouts. “At first I thought you were just a weird fan and then I wondered if you were sent by Vancouver to fuck me.”

“You thought I was Canadian?” Ray asks, revolted.

“I think you're creepy stalker with possible Vancouver allegiance,” he replies and then takes a smug slurp from his fruity drink. Who knew it was possible to drink smugly?

“If you think I’m some sort of psycho stalker, why do keep drinking with me?” Ray demands.

“If you think I’m evil why do you keep drinking with me?” Patrick Kane asks.

“Fucking vodka,” Ray says.

“Fucking vodka,” Patrick Kane agrees.

They enjoy a brief moment of disturbing camaraderie. It’s quickly broken by the disgusting sound of Patrick Kane slurping up the rest of his drink. 

“Listen,” Ray says. “Just please tell whoever has been sending me increasingly graphic and violent text messages to stop.”

“I honestly have no clue who’s been doing that,” Patrick Kane replies. He’s not lying, but Ray notices something weirdly hopeful in the look on his face. It’s a stark contrast to his usual look of slack jawed drunken stupidity.

“All the messages are signed with a ‘J’.”

“Really?” It’s the most interested Ray’s ever seen him. “Can I see the texts?”

Ray hands over his phone and watches Patrick Kane read the the threats of bloodshed and dismemberment with an increasingly fond expression. Ray grabs the phone away from him, when he swears that hearts are actually forming in Patrick Kane’s eyes. 

“Just tell whoever the fuck ‘J’ is to back the fuck off with the threats of bodily harm.” Ray demands.

“Stop stalking me!” Patrick Kane says.

“You’re fucking reserve stalking me,” Ray complains.

“You kissed me!”

“I tripped and fell on your lips,” Ray protest.

Patrick Kane stares at him for a moment and then starts laughing.

“That’s really what happened,” Rays says. “There was a beer bottle on the floor and...”

“Whatever.”

“Listen,” Ray says. “Let’s just make a rule that we can’t both be in the same state at the same time. That way this won’t keep on happening.

“Deal,” Patrick Kane says.

They sit in silence for a moment. Ray thinks about going back to sit with Walt.

“Shots to seal the deal?” Patrick Kane asks.

“Okay.”

vi. 

Walt doesn’t talk to Ray for two weeks after that night.

Ray buys a Canucks jersey. He has no clue what the fuck a Canuck is, but if Patrick Kane hates them, then Ray’s a fan.

The whole not being in the same state at the same time thing works for a few weeks, but a key component of the plan is that they have to remember to let the other one know where they’re at. Ray is actually kind of impressed they made it two whole weeks. 

Ray is wearing the Canucks jersey when the state plan fails. Patrick Kane hits him over the head with a beer bottle. Ray has to get two stitches. Patrick Kane ends up on deadspin again. Brad calls Ray and lectures him for 45 minutes straight on how he is destroying greatness. “J” is so apparently so incoherent with rage that the text message Ray receives from him is just random characters and a whole lot of exclamation points.

Ray is really not feeling the fucking love right now and it is pissing him off because he’s hasn’t done anything wrong.

vii.

Ray gets the text message at 5am. 

_think maybe its a curse._

Ray has refused to program Patrick Kane into his phone, but he recognizes the number. He responds with: _A metaphorical curse or like an actual curse by witches or some shit_.

It takes two minutes for Patrick Kane to respond. Ray bets he’s looking up metaphorical in the dictionary.

_a witch curse_

Ray sighs and hits the call button on his phone. “Are you fucking high?” He asks. “A witch curse, seriously?”

“You fucking don’t know the shit that happens in the NHL,” Patrick Kane says. He sounds sober and serious. 

“A fucking witch curse?” Ray repeats because it needs to be repeated. 

“Stranger shit has happened,” Patrick Kane replies an Ray can practically hear him shrugging over the phone.

“No, it really hasn’t,” Ray says. “Why would a witch even want to curse us?”

“Fuck, if I know,” Patrick Kane replies. “We’re investigating.”

“You’re investigating,” Ray says. “Investigating the possibility that we’ve been cursed by fucking witches.”

“Yes.”

“Wait, we? Who’s we? You and Psycho J?” Ray asks.

“He’s not psycho,” Patrick Kane says defensively. “He’s just very intense.”

“Fuck my life.”

viii.

And then things get really weird.

Ray is in Missouri. He knows that for a fact, but beyond that he’s not sure of anything because he just woke up in a very seedy hotel room and Patrick Kane is sleeping next to him and there is a baby crying right outside their door.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Motherfucking fuck my fucking life,” Ray groans into his pillow. Patrick Kane snores next to him. Ray hates him so fucking much. 

Ray tries to develop a plan of action. First order of business is to figure out what the fuck is the deal with the baby because it needs to shut up so that Ray can then go into the bathroom and drown himself.

He stumbles out of the bed and yanks open the door. There is a baby sitting in a car seat right in front of their door screaming her head off. Ray frowns down at the baby and she quiets and smiles up at him.

Patrick Kane stumbles next to him and looks at the baby in horror. “Did our accidental hate sex just produce a magical baby?”  
A harried looking woman returns from her car to pick up the car seat and glare at them.

Ray pushes Patrick Kane back in the hotel room and slams the door shut. “What the fuck is wrong with you? And what the hell happens in the NHL?” Ray asks and then finally completely registers what had been said. “Accidental hate sex?”

“I don’t actually remember anything,” Patrick Kane says. He sounds hopeful. “I just kind of assumed with the baby and everything.”

“You assumed,” Ray says, trying his best to stay calm, but not doing a good job. “You thought baby producing hate sex was a reasonable assumption.”

Patrick Kane shrugs. “Shit happens.”

Ray stares at him for a moment and then scrolls through his phone looking for a number and then calls it. It picks up after one ring. “Psycho J? It’s your pal, Ray. I need you to do be a favor and come pick up your delusional boyfriend and then the two of you can fuck off and make fucking stupid magic hockey babies as far away from me as possible. Okay?” Ray ends the call before Psycho J has a chance to speak. 

“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my... um...”

Ray raises an eyebrow.

“Captain,” Patrick Kane finishes.

“Kinky,” Ray says vaguely and then stumbles into the bathroom to shower. When he’s done showering, he passes out on the bed. When he wakes up several hours later there are three more people in the motel room.

ix.

“Psycho J,” Ray exclaims. “What a pleasure it isn’t to meet you.”

Sometime during the day, Psycho J, Walt, and Brad had shown up. Apparently it was time for some sort of intervention.

“He has a name, Ray,” Brad says.

“I don’t care.” Ray looks over Psycho J. He looks just about as psycho as expected. It’s the eyes. They’re watching him right now, staring into his soul, and clearly finding him wanting. Ray shudders. Psycho J is unsurprisingly creepy as all fuck. 

Walt is sitting next to him on the bed. Ray tries to move closer. Walt pushes him away with a glare.

Ray feels betrayed. “Whatever they told you happened, I promise I did not have accidental baby producing hate sex.”

“Whatever,” Walt sighs.

Ray glares at Patrick Kane. “You made Walt mad at me!”

“You’re the stalker!”

“You’re the one who plays the fucked up, unpatriotic sport where it’s normal for people to be cursed and for magical babies to appear!” Ray shouts.

“Shut up, Ray,” Brad orders.

“This wouldn’t happen in NASCAR is all I’m fucking saying,” Ray complains

Walt lets out a brief snort of laughter next to him and Ray counts it as a small victory.

“We need to break the curse,” Psycho J says.

“What is the curse exactly?” Walt asks. “We can’t break it unless we know what it is.”

Ray turns to Brad. “I can’t believe you believe in this curse shit.”

Brad shrugs. “They’ve lost three games in a row. Something needs to be done. I have money on this.”

“The fact that you bet on hockey is the most disappointing thing I’ve ever found out about you.”

Patrick Kane clears his throat. Ray rolls his eyes. Curses. Fine. Ray will believe in curses if it means he never has to see Patrick Kane again.

“We think it might be a love spell,” Psycho J says.

“Like this is never going to stop until we fuck or something?” Ray asks, starting to panic.

“Not that type of love spell,” Patrick Kane says and shoves at Psycho J. “He’s just fucking you you.” Psycho J shoves him back and Patrick Kane looks at him fondly.

“You two are really, really fucking weird,” Ray says. “What kind of love spell then?”

“Um...” Psycho J says and then blushes.

“I knew it! I fucking knew it!” Ray shouts and then turns to Patrick Kane. “This isn’t my fucking fault. This is all you and your psycho boyfriend’s fault. I’m an innocent bystander! Go off and have perverted, psycho hockey sex and leave me alone.”

“We already tried that,” Patrick Kane says looking smug.

“Wait, really?” Ray asks. “And he still looks that psycho? Clearly you’re doing it wrong.”

“Goddamn it, Ray,” Brad complains after he has to physically restrain Psycho J from choking Ray.

“You’re involved in this somehow,” Patrick Kane says.

“I’m not having a threesome with you and the psycho,” Ray declares.

“No, you’re really not,” Walt says. Psycho J gives Walt an approving look. Ray tries to tug Walt closer.

“You’re all idiots,” Brad says. “Whatever happened must have happened on the first night you met. Figure out what happened that night and you can break the curse.”

“Nothing happened,” Ray says. “I was in Chicago with Walt and there was a bar and there was drinking and then this fuckhead showed up and ruined my life. There were no witches, no evil fairies, no fucking hogwarts shit.”

“Um...” Walt says looking uncomfortable.

“Walter, what did you do?” Ray asks.

“Is magical absinthe a thing?” Walt asks.

Everyone stares at him.

“I was pissed off because Ray had ditched me to go play darts with Patrick Kane and this guy at the bar asked me if I had ever had absinthe , and I say ‘No’ and he gave me some and said something about green fairies, but I wasn’t really paying attention, and then right before I took a sip, I said, ‘Those fuckheads deserve each other,’ and I felt weird after I drank it and there were some weird flashing lights, but, you know absinthe.”

There’s a moment of silence which Ray finally breaks. “You couldn’t have shared this with the class before?”

“It didn’t really occur to me that your creepy obsession with some dumb ass hockey player could have been caused by me drinking magical absinthe.”

“Point,” Ray says and turns to the dumb ass hockey player. “So how do we fix this? Please tell me the answer involves Walt and I having lots of kinky sex.”

“You’re not mad at me?” Walt asks.

“You got so jealous that I was playing darts with someone else that you accidentally unleashed a curse that nearly drove me insane, caused two psycho hockey players to fuck, and apparently had a detrimental effect on their team’s standings. That’s amazing and I’m going to be able to hold this over you forever.”

“Oh,” Walt says and then grins. “So kinky sex to break the curse, right?”

“Not exactly,” Psycho J says.

Patrick Kane is staring at them with his mouth slightly open. “And you think we’re the psycho ones?”

x.

There really is no sex involved in the curse breaking. Ray is disappointed. It’s just the affected parties, the bar where it all started, and a suspicious looking bottle of Absinthe that Psycho J got from some people. He looks shifty as fuck when he says ‘people’ and Ray reminds himself to stay as far away from hockey as he can. Those fuckers are weird. Maybe it isn’t all that much of a surprise that Brad is a closet fan.

All that happens is that Walt pronounces that he didn’t mean what he said before, they all take a drink, there’s some weird ass sparkly lights, and then the curse is broken.

Brad gets an autograph and a promise of season tickets. Ray is really kind of embarrassed to him. People always assume it should be the other way around, but they don’t know Brad like Ray does.

Ray decides to be mature about the whole thing and makes peace before they leave. 

“Patrick Kane. Psycho J,” Ray says and then shakes their hands. “Enjoy your fucking and your lame ass sport. I hope I never see either of you again.”

Walt nods at them and then pulls Ray out of the bar.

XI.  
A few months later Walt shows up on his doorstep and announces that they’re going on a roadtrip.

”Where?” Ray asks.

“Chicago,” Walt says and then hands Ray an envelope with hockey tickets and passes over a bag filled with Vancouver Canucks gear.

Ray smiles. “I really do love you most of all!”

Maybe God isn’t such a dick after all.


End file.
